


and if i didnt love you then, i love you now

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: "Hand Over Mouth Over And Over", And grammatically incorrect, But Dave only sort of remembers, Character Death, Deja Vu, I just have a lot of feelings about post-scratch okay, Jade remembers Dave and Rose remembers everything, M/M, Memories, Post-Scratch, This was meant to be a short drabble, Title is purposely lowercase, by A Lot Like Birds, it's a lyric from a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You live your life with a sickening sense of deja vu.</p><p>(you remember him, barely.</p><p>if you hadn't loved him before,</p><p>you certainly do now.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and if i didnt love you then, i love you now

**Author's Note:**

> OH SO MANY POST-SCRATCH FEELINGS.

You found it odd, really.

One morning you wake up long before your alarm clock has the chance to go off, and you have a feeling you’ve forgotten something. For weeks, you sift through the endless stream of garbage you have come to known as your thoughts over the years, but you can’t seem to remember anything you may have tried to push out of your head. When you become tired of searching, you stop looking.

(because there isn’t a point in chasing something you won’t catch.)

* * *

 

When you were younger, you’d dreamt of becoming a world famous artist. You noticed quickly how it differed from the other children your age, ones who wanted to be ballerinas or firefighters. The day you began kindergarten, your teacher asked each and every student what they wanted to be, and when she called your name you had boldly said, “An artist.”

Some students laughed, told you that was a stupid thing to pursue. That there were better things, things that were much more enjoyable and fun. The teacher scolded those who picked on you for having such a dream, told them that it was your life and if you chose to be an artist, so be it. You thought it sounded fun, and just because they didn’t, it didn’t mean they could tease you.

And you did, for many years, try to become and artist. But you never could, because whenever you sat down to work on drawing something, it always ended up being a person with inky black hair and electric blue eyes, but never distinct features. You began to hate that hair color and eye color, slowly, and so you never befriended anyone with black hair or blue eyes.

Once high school ended, you gave up art and instead went into the film business. You found most movies you created to be an atrocity (which they were) but everyone loved them. By twenty-two you had somehow become one of the most successful film directors in the world, nominated for a plethora of awards, friends with A-list celebrities. It seemed as though everyone knew the name “Dave Strider.”

(you still drew, sometimes.

but you always drew people;

with glasses and inky black hair and electric blue eyes,

but never any distinct features.)

* * *

 

You hadn’t really planned on settling down with anyone, nor had you wanted to raise a kid. They would be nothing more than a nuisance, and you didn’t need one. But, the day you found one lying in the aftermath of a crashed meteor, you had decided to take it home. After all, who else would retrieve a child from a meteor? They’d probably all think it was an alien from another planet.

It was a boy, you discovered. You named him Dirk. He looked just like you, though you knew there was no possible way he could have been related to you by DNA. He had, after it was all said and done, come from a meteor that fell from the sky.

The year you find him is the year the movie Con Air is released, and from the trailers you’ve seen it looks awful. Worse than your own movies, you’d say.

(even so, you see it more than once in the theater --

and every single time, you cry.)

* * *

 

By now, you’re used to meeting famous people.

The first time, you’d been so nervous you thought you would piss yourself. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. But after years in the film industry, you rarely get worked up about meeting them any more. In retrospect, they’re just a fellow celebrity. So you can’t seem to figure out why, after so many years of fame, your stomach is twisted up and you’re tongue tied as you stand before legendary comedic, John Crocker.

It’s familiarity, you decide. Something picks at the back of your brain, a thought telling you that you’ve met him before. He has inky black hair, electric blue eyes, and glasses, but he has definite features. Buckteeth, high cheekbones, pale skin. He smiles widely and showcases to you all thirty-two of his teeth, and your stomach becomes tighter. Your chest is much, much tighter, however. “I’m, ah, Dave Strider.” You return eventually, after his grin has subsided to nothing more than a small smile.

“I know,” He responds. “Your movies are godawful.”

You would defend your movies, if you didn’t agree wholeheartedly.

The laugh you let out is nothing short of awkward. “Yeah, they kind of are.”

 

* * *

 

John Crocker is old enough to be your father.

But it’s like the man never ages -- he has to be in his seventies by now, but he looks to be only about mid-fifties. You know you, at only thirty-four, should probably not be in a committed relationship with someone much older than you. But there’s something about him -- about his pranks and his smile and his eyes and _him_ \-- that makes you love him more than you could ever love anyone else.

“I’m going to die first.” He says abruptly one day, while the two of you are situated beneath a wool blanket to escape the chill of winter. You give him a sidelong glance, and for a split second he looks much younger than he is; you blink and behind your eyelids see him, much younger, in an entirely blue outfit with yellow shoes and a hood that resembles a sock. But it is, without a doubt, him. Because he smiles at you, and his buckteeth are there, and the grin is goofy and everything about it is so very _John_.

“Probably.” You reply. You never were good at comforting people.

“I love you.” He says. A sickening sense of deja vu washes over you -- he’s told you that before, but it wasn’t in this world, it was somewhere else.

“You too.”

(you’ve never been good at expressing your feelings.

the word love is not one you can say,

but he knows what you mean.)

* * *

 

John does, in fact, die first.

It isn’t a very extravagant death -- he’s fetching a baseball Dirk managed to get caught in the stormdrain, the ladder he’s on falls, and you know he’s dead before he hits the ground. His funeral is held on a rainy Tuesday morning; you know he would have loved it, he always did like the rain.

His granddaughter, Jane, is there -- you’ve only met her once. Right before the doors to the church close, two women you’ve never met before step out of a car and walk slowly to them. They tell their names, and you feel an overwhelming sense to help them get to the service whether they’re on the list of invited people or not.

As you’d expected, they’re turned down. The one on the right, one much older than the one on the left, with grey hair and some of the fiercest green eyes you’ve ever seen looks about ready to cry. The one on the left, the younger one, with blonde hair and striking violet eyes pats her back comfortingly. “Wait!” You call before the door is slammed on their faces, and everyone turns to look at you.

“They’re family friends. We forgot their names when we made the list.” You explain, and though hesitant, the guard nods and lets them in. The elder of the two hugs you tighter than you’ve ever been hugged before, and when she steps back you examine her face and deja vu washes over you like it had before. You blink and behind your eyelids you see her, much younger, with black hair and dog ears, in some sort of getup that has stockings that resemble candycanes.

She grins. Buckteeth. “Missed me, coolkid?”

“Good to see you again, Dave.” The younger of them says. You blink and see her younger, as well, in an orange outfit with a yellow sun on it and a hood pulled over her eyes. You wonder briefly how she can even manage to walk in it.

They seem to know you. You don’t know them very well past that deja vu, and their names are not coming to you. “I see your remembrance is shotty. As the Seer of Light, I assume it was easier for me to recollect my memories,” The blonde says. “Moving on, I think we’re holding up a funeral.”

You rush to your seat with the women following closely behind.

(later, they introduce themselves as rose lalonde and jade english.

the sense of deja vu remains.)

* * *

 

You find out John had a will from his granddaughter.

She’s nice enough, you suppose. Dirk seems to have taken a liking to her, but only in a friend sense, you notice. They seem to be close to best friends, and you notice a few parallels in their friendship from one you used to have. You don’t remember her name, though, and you aren’t sure if she was your friend in this world or another. “He didn’t really have much,” She says, handing you a slip of paper. “But he left it to you.”

“He didn’t leave you anything?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

She laughs. “He didn’t have to. I’m the Heiress to Crockercorp, so I’ve got a lot coming my way when I turn eighteen. Besides, I told him I didn’t want him to leave me anything. It just wasn’t necessary.”

You nod, unfolding the paper. He hadn’t had much, that she had been right about; but what he did have was a fortune from years of movies and stand-up comedy routines. He left it all to you, even though he already knew you had plenty of money. At the bottom, there’s a note scribbled in his chicken scratch that says, “use it to send Dirk to college for robotics.” You smile fondly.

“He loved you more than anything.” Jane says. You look at her over your sunglasses, figuring your red eyes won’t disturb her in the slightest. They don’t. “He never loved anyone like he loved you.”

(if you were to be honest with yourself, you’d never loved anyone like you loved him.

and you don’t think you ever will again.)

* * *

 

Your death is stupid. You admit it freely, because you’re the one who experiences it. You had thought trying to ride a skateboard was a good idea, even at the age of sixty, and it landed you in the hospital with a head injury. They told you if you didn’t stay awake, you may go into a coma. You told them you could keep yourself awake, and you could not.

By the time Dirk makes it to the hospital, Jane, Roxy, and Jake trailing close behind, you’ve slipped into a coma. One that they’re told you’re unlikely to wake up from. A month passes before Dirk takes you off of life support, and you die. Death isn’t anything to be afraid of, and you are not.

You’re a ghost until you aren’t anymore.

(you don’t know what happened.

you were stuck in limbo, you guess. but suddenly you just weren’t anymore.

poof! you were gone.)

* * *

 

When you wake up next, you sincerely hope you aren’t in hell. It feels hot enough to be, but you never thought you were quite that bad a person. “Dave! Rose, it’s okay, Dave is fine!” You blink a few times, familiarity and remembrance setting in. You know that voice, you would never forget the excitement that’s present in the tone, not stronger than the nervousness at this point in time but still _there_. And you know if he’s here, there is no possible way you have ended up in hell. “Are you okay?”

You look up, meeting a pair of blue eyes you’ve missed for a while now. His hair is still inky black and untamed, he still has buckteeth, and even though his grin is not present currently you know what it would look like if it was. “Peachy, babe.” You respond reflectively, slightly shocked that your voice cracks. Puberty? How the hell old are you?

(judging by how young john is, you can only assume you must be pretty damn young.)

He breathes out, and you have to bite back a smile when finally, you get to see his goofy grin that you’ve missed for who-knows-how-long. “Oh, good. I thought you were dead, don’t scare me like that ever again.”

You want to tell him you are dead, that you just died, and that he is too. But you can’t, because you don’t think you’re in that world anymore. You are somewhere else. The sense of deja vu has disappeared, and now all you have is remembrance. “Sorry princess, thought I should give you a good scare,” You say, sitting up. He helps you stand, and once you’re on your feet he attacks you with a hug. “Might wanna ca--”

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a forceful kiss. He’s still an awful kisser, just like before, and you smile fondly against his lips. He pulls back and grins. “You smiled.”

“I did.”

“I missed you.”

You smile again. It feels strange, but you’ll live. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head and laughs.

(you’ve never been very good at expressing your feelings.

telling someone you missed them is not something you can say,

but he knows what you mean.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually about to be in the process of writing something that ISN'T devastatingly sad.
> 
> That's a new one, huh?
> 
> (It'll be up when I finish it. Which could be anywhere from now to Sunday.)


End file.
